Doomsday: A Batman One-Shot
by Kuraun15
Summary: Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson have a conversation in their favorite bar. Rated for some descriptions of violence.


Doomsday

Loser's was crowded yet quiet. The men and women packed around tables, in booths, and at the bar all wore somber expressions and spoke slowly. Their drinks were half-emptied at most, and they either felt a greater inclination to tip or none at all. And not a single one of them wanted to make use of the dance floor. Laughter did pierce the heavy curtain of silence, yes, but only seldom, and always laced with bitterness and nostalgia accumulated over five years or more.

"Do you remember when he…?"

"Yeah, I was just a few blocks down, actually…"

"…seen so much destruction before…"

"…autograph this one time!"

"Blows my mind some people don't…"

"…this tattoo 'cause of him."

"I was in a study group with him in high school. Said I'd keep in touch when I moved here, but…"

"I miss him. A lot."

The only man sitting alone in the Underground's favorite bar tried to ignore these snippets of conversation as best he could. He came to Loser's to try and keep _away_ from all his own embittered memories. His own home, with that table, with that parlor, with that _cave_ , would only plague his reflective nature.

Forty-seven years of age, dressed in black jeans and a dark T-shirt, his face sporting the first beard he'd grown in nearly twenty years, left hand resting on a cane, right hand free of a drink, face downcast and eyes staring at an empty table surface, he was the very appearance of a man wishing to be left alone. His back ached. It had been getting worse. He didn't know if it was some kind of effect of the emotions leading up to this day, or just the gradual functional decline of the little filament holding his spinal cord together. The second possibility was beginning to seem more likely, and much of his mental efforts were directed towards resigning himself to his eventual fate. Once it failed, after all, there was no one left alive who could do anything about it.

The bell above the door rang and another regular entered, dressed in grey joggers, a red T-shirt, and a black hoodie. The barkeep, Hannah, didn't greet him, despite the fact she'd known him (and the man sitting alone) for eighteen years. The atmosphere of the bar had even managed to touch her. The man sitting alone didn't lift his gaze, either.

The regular ordered a Shirley Temple. He didn't usually go into bars. They brought back too many bad memories, too many nights when his wife was forced to sleep alone. This one was different. This one felt safe. "Hey Dick," Hannah quietly said. The two exchanged friendly smiles, restrained from breaking into full grins by the very nature of the day.

The drink was prepared, Dick nodded, "Thank you, Hannah," and he walked over to the man sitting alone. They did not exchange smiles. Dick sat his drink down and took a seat.

"Sorry I'm late, Bruce. Just had to drop off Barb at Lois' hotel room. She thought she could use a visitor."

"I'm glad you're here, Dick," Bruce replied.

Dick stared at the mouth of his cup. "Yeah…yeah, I'm glad I'm here, too."

An awkward silence fell on the two men. The purpose of this meeting hadn't been defined in Bruce's phone call. All he'd said was that he wanted to see Dick at Loser's. And of course, the only topic that readily came to their minds was the same one that came to _everyone's_ minds on this day. They wanted to avoid that topic.

"How's Connor? Did you see him when you dropped off Barb?"

"Yeah…doing well, I think…today hits him like you'd expect, but…doing well. Chip off the old block, from what I understand. He's getting _very_ big and _very_ strong."

"As strong as his dad?"

"Nah, I don't think so. I think Lois' genes might've…tempered that a little bit."

"And what about Lois?"

"Holding up. I think it gets better for her as the years go on. Jimmy and Paige are staying for the week. Got to say hi to them, too."

"You should've invited Jimmy."

"I did. He didn't want to come. Nothing personal, of course. It's just…different for him."

"I know."

The awkward silence resumed, but it was lighter now. Bruce furrowed his brow. "It's Arthur's night, isn't it?"

Dick nodded. "He was parked a few blocks away. Using some kind of fish to keep watch…climbing perch, I think he said."

"Good. That's good. How's Barb, anyway?"

"Doing really well, actually. Uh…it was…like, five weeks ago now? Yeah, five weeks ago. The anniversary. And, I mean…" He shrugged. He grasped at words for a few seconds, shaking his head, before finally finishing, "I-I don't think either of us pay it much heed anymore."

Bruce was happy for that news. _The anniversary_. The eleventh, in fact. And Dick could barely remember exactly when it was. Nonetheless, Bruce sighed. He remembered the exact day. He had a harder time letting things go.

"Is GCN still treating her well?"

"Far as I can tell. The morning news audience loves her, anyway."

"Is she finally going to go forward with that pitch?"

"…Hard to say. I keep telling her it'd be a hit, but…ah, you know Barb. She's cautious. I'm sure she'll come around eventually."

"I'm sure."

By now, Dick had finished his drink. He fidgeted with the glass absentmindedly, tapping it on the table and sliding it from hand to hand. His eyebrows suddenly raised and he silently said "Oh" with the remembrance of a subject he'd been especially curious about.

"How're the, uh – the uh, recruitments going? Got any new guys? What about that, uh, that red guy, used to run around with Ollie. Roy Harper? Speedy?"

"Harper seems to prefer Arsenal nowadays. Speedy is…kind of a kid's name to him, I suppose. Yeah, he's…resistant, much like Ollie was. But I think he's open." He shrugged his shoulders. "It remains to be seen."

Dick nodded. This was the best news he'd heard in a while. Filling the holes in the team was a difficult task. "So, anyone else take up the offer?"

"Hm. Arthur said he knows someone. He's a full-blooded Atlantean, a warrior he personally trained. Apparently, he wants to know what his king does on his excursions to the overworld. He could even want to make a commitment to doing the same. His name is Kaldur'ahm. I might take him up on it."

Dick's eyes widened and a smile grew on his face. "So, like…Aquaboy? H2Overlord? Um, Nautilus?"

Bruce smirked. "The last one's a little cool, but Arthur said Kaldur wants to be called Aqualad."

"Ah, that's serviceable. Anyone else on your radar?"

"A couple. Have you heard of the Blue Beetle? He's a new guy out of Barry's hometown."

"No, haven't caught wind of him."

"Yeah, I sort of figured. He's pulling small-time stuff right now. Anyway, he's…not as careful as he should be. Barry and I were able to figure him out. His real name's Ted Kord. He's a verifiable genius, straight out of tech school. We can't figure out where he gets his powers from yet."

"What _are_ his powers, exactly?"

"He has this weird suit. It's nothing like what we've seen. It's like a blue suit of armor, it covers his whole body. It seems to advance his fighting abilities too. All we could figure out is that it seems to come from his back. It comes out of there when he's Blue Beetle, and it retreats when he's Ted."

"So, I take it you haven't paid him a personal visit."

With a single shake of his head, Bruce replied, "No."

"Aw, come on, he's got powers and he's doing good! Isn't that enough to extend the invitation?"

"No, we still need to know what kind of precautions we should take in case he goes rogue. That's how it's been since the _beginning_. Remember I wasn't the only one backing this policy of ours."

Dick fumed, but moved on. "All right, fine. What about the other guy?"

"He…is an even greater enigma. He's from Middletown, Oregon. All I know is he's got green skin, wears a blue suit with a red cape, and flies around his city fighting crime. The papers have taken to calling him The Martian."

"That sounds a little insensitive."

"Journalists can be that way." They smirked. They both knew the truth in that innocuous remark.

Dick snapped his fingers and shook his head as though he'd realized something else. "Heard anything from Spectre lately?"

"No. I don't know where he's gone. He always…looked at his being the Spectre as…penance, I think, owed to Gotham. Even if he hadn't dropped off the map…I don't think he would've joined. But he's either retired or…he's dead, so I guess it doesn't matter now."

Dick let out a low chuckle. The mention of the Spectre, Jim Corrigan, reminded him of who Corrigan used to work for.

"Wonder what the Scarecrow's up to these days."

"He's written a few books, given a few lectures at Arkham. From what I understand, attendance isn't all that great."

Dick let out the first genuine, hearty laugh of their time together that night. It was not uncommon for Bruce and Dick's conversations to eventually end up at their old rogues gallery. The Joker, Bane, White Knight, Two-Face, Deathstroke, the Scarecrow, Solomon Grundy, Man-Bat, and Blackfire…the villains who occupied the formative years of the Bat Family. New villains came and went, but the Batman and Nightwing the public knew were shaped by the influence of the old ones.

And then it was Bruce who remembered a certain subject that had been bothersome. He cleared his throat and inquired, "Have you figured out who…exhumed Jack yet?"

Dick's smile disappeared. "No. I looked into the Whisper Gang, but of course they're glorified highwaymen. Even though Jack killed one of their leaders, it's not like they care more about vengeance than money. A more likely candidate is the leader of the Mutant Gang. Some nameless criminal hotshot, files his teeth down, bleached his skin, goes around shirtless…real messed up. But even that's a stretch. Compared to, well, an organization like the Whisper Gang, the Mutants are petty. Only operate in Blüdhaven, too. I don't see any reason for them to come to Gotham other than a display of power, but they already have plenty of opportunities to do that back home. Their leader's my prime suspect, though…really all I know is that whoever did it was probably more sadistic than Jack…I mean, the…"

Dick shook his head, a look of disgust and masked horror spreading across his face. He sighed and continued, "Anyway, the DNA results will get back in a couple days and I'll…figure it out from there, hopefully."

Dick let out a heavy sigh. Bruce gave him a slight smirk and said, "You never get used to it."

Dick rubbed his eyes. "Yeah…yeah, I kind of figured."

"Are you going to need my help?"

Dick shook his head emphatically, "No, no, I want to do this myself. I want to…Jack has always been _my_ case. _I_ closed it. Now that it's opened back up, I want – I, I _need_ to finish it."

Bruce conceded, "Okay, then. You got it. Just make sure you know when it's gotten to be too much. I'm still here to help you…I'll always be here…as long as I can help it."

"Yeah. I know. Thanks…how's…"

Dick stopped abruptly.

Bruce tilted his head forward and inquired, "How is…what?"

Dick suddenly looked like he didn't want to ask. "It…it's not important. Never mind."

"It seems like it's important to _you_. How is what?"

Dick shook his head, looking down at the table. He seemed to muster himself and finally asked, "How's the…search? The, the other…search. It's just, I know it's probably not the best question, it being…today. Already got enough on our minds."

"It's fine, Dick. I haven't thought much about it lately." He let out a deep sigh of regret, disappointment, and a little bit of…relief. "Dick, I'm…not going to look for a new…sidekick, a new partner. I think it's time for me to start looking for…a new _Batman_."

Dick sat back in his chair. Now he was well and truly speechless.

Bruce threw up his hands, "I know it's a shock. I think it's time."

Dick shook his head and leaned forward. "Jus-…why?"

"I mean, why not? I've been at this for _seventeen_ years. Most _athletes_ don't make it that long, and most of them would never make it doing what I'm doing. I think I should count myself lucky, really…and-and this" – Bruce brought his thumb to his back for a moment – "it's not going to last much longer. I can feel it. And once it stops keeping up, well…" He clasped his hands together and brought them apart again, widened his eyes, and puffed out his cheeks, like he was miming a small explosion. He went on, "Lucius is gone, _Alfred_ is gone…and any idea of how it works or how to fix it with them. I don't know, maybe it was unfixable. Maybe Lucius knew it wouldn't last and just didn't have the heart to tell me. Maybe I knew all along. Either way, it could be a few years, a few months, days, _hours_ …but then…kaput. And I certainly can't risk that happening in the field. I need someone to carry Batman further than I can."

Dick was biting his lip. His brow was furrowed and his nostrils flared, looking as though he was trying to concentrate on something he couldn't comprehend, which, in a way, he was. He wasn't looking Bruce in the eye. That is, until he asked, "Does it scare you at all?"

As he thought, Bruce never broke eye contact with his friend. The few seconds it took for him to answer felt like hours to both men, hours of crushing silence, the chattering and clinking of the bar tucked somewhere in the back of their minds.

The terrible silence broke under the weight of Bruce's solemn intonation of the word, "No."

Dick wasn't sure if that was the answer he wanted.

Bruce elaborated, "No, it doesn't scare me. It probably should, but it doesn't. It'll take some getting used to-"

"That's an understatement," Dick butted in.

"I'll concede that," Bruce smirked, "But it's true. I'll have to adjust to an entirely new lifestyle. And I won't be nearly as well defended. If this thing goes out tomorrow and someone with bad intentions comes calling to the Manor…my chances are a little more on the slim side. The only way I'm dealing with that right now is looking at it as something to get used to."

Dick grinned bitterly, a grin eerily similar to the permanently pained one worn by the Clown Prince himself, as he admitted, "I hate it. I hate the idea so much. But you're right. I wish I didn't know you were right. But I do, and you are. Is…is that why the beard? You haven't had one in so long, I guess I should have known…"

Bruce felt the panic rising in Dick and quelled it, saying, "Unless what I said about it being hours is correct, no, that's…not why the beard."

Bruce stopped there on that subject. He had come dangerously close there.

Dick was relieved but not reassured as he slowly inquired, "So, then…got any candidates anyway?"

Bruce shrugged, "Ah, a few. I'm kind of watching and seeing how they shape up right now. There's an ex-cop named Terry McGinnis who's looking pretty good."

Dick raised his eyebrows at this, whispering, "An ex-cop, eh?"

"An ex-cop, yes. McGinnis was with the GCPD for seven years, since he was eighteen. Just a few months ago, a little bit before my search began, he quit. He couldn't do it anymore. Sometimes the law demands that life be taken, and he just couldn't take that. But he still has this…hunger for justice. He calls in tips sometimes, he's stopped a few muggers, just everyday stuff. But I'm starting to think he has potential for greater things. Like I said, I'll play it by ear."

"So, with all that in mind…you going to stay with the team?"

"I'm getting every last bit of use out of this thing before I end up sitting pretty for the rest of my life."

Dick nodded in reluctant acceptance, "All right. When do you plan to tell the others?"

"When…the time's right. I don't know exactly when that is, but it'll come soon. Hopefully it'll come sooner than the day my legs buckle under me."

This was where their conversation started feeling like it was being squeezed through a tube that was just too tight. It felt like they were both in a car that had just skidded to a stop and was now half hanging over the edge of a cliff. It felt like they were about to cut the red wire when, in their guts, they knew for _certain_ it would blow them to smithereens.

They hadn't wanted to approach that great, terrifying, cursed subject the whole night, but there was a tugging inside each of them telling them that it was inevitable, after all. Now all that stood between them and it was the question of who would bring it up first.

Bruce, looking thoroughly frustrated with himself, finally breathed, "Dick, the beard is because of Clark. That's why the beard."

Dick didn't move. He had his elbows on the table, fingers weaved in front of his face, eyes fixed on the empty stretch of bench next to Bruce.

Bruce continued, "A few years back, maybe…six months after we formed the League, I was…working myself harder than I ever had. I had to deal with the formation of a team like none before it and the world's reaction to it. Who ever thought superheroes would have to do that? I was working like a mule. Clark noticed. He saw how much stress I was under. He told me about when he thought Manchester Black had killed Lois. He…decided to take a break. He didn't even _look_ at…well, he said he didn't even look at 'Superman'. He totally dropped the act because…he knew he couldn't do it."

"I remember you back then," Dick finally looked at Bruce, "Seems to me like you didn't take his advice."

"No, I didn't," Bruce said with a touch of shame, "But then...the month began, and I realized this day was coming up soon, and…I don't know, something about it being five years, I suppose…I figured it's better late than never."

"So, then you've been…"

"Taking a break, yes. I thought it was right. There's no big name out on the streets right now and crime is way down. I'll probably get back into it tomorrow, though. Even if the criminal underbelly of Gotham apparently has some kind of reverence for today, it could change very quickly. Have you been doing the same?"

Dick's mouth curled ever so slightly upwards and he shook his head, "Nah. Nose to the grindstone, that's me. But I have Barb. It's easier for me. I support your decision, man, and if there's anything I can do to help, I'm right here."

Bruce nodded appreciatively, "Thank you, Dick."

Suddenly, the one topic everyone talked about today didn't seem so scary anymore.

Bruce shook his head, as if in bewilderment, and continued, "You know, it's so weird…it feels so arbitrary…but something about it being _five years_ …hits me harder than usual."

"Been having the nightmares again?"

"No, not this time, oddly enough."

But Bruce still remembered them. The dull grey monster, looking as though it was made of stone, covered in diseased-looking bone spurs, eyes like hateful embers, a mouth filled with shark-like teeth and twisted into some hideous, spiteful grin, beat Superman to death with its clenched fists, dying his blue costume red and tearing it away with each strike. And there, some distance away, as Superman's hair matted to his head and dripped red, as he breathed his last, Bruce lay, as himself, without his gadgets and weapons, paraplegic, unable to do a thing.

That wasn't how it had happened. The monster looked exactly like that, yes. But it never came to a wickedly gleeful beating. The monster, which was shortly thereafter named Doomsday by the press (which Bruce found grossly inappropriate; giving Superman's killer a catchy name felt like too much of a reward), was never in a place where all it had to do was akin to tenderizing meat. Superman fought to the bitter end.

His hair was matted, indeed, blood dripped into his eyes and came in mouthfuls with each agonizing coughing fit, and ribs were broken, but the monster was in a similarly dire place. Several dagger-like teeth were missing. Bone spurs were broken or torn entirely from its flesh. Burns marked where it had been struck with heat vision. It had broken ribs as well, an eye swelled shut, and massive internal bleeding.

Finally, when the monster managed to get its teeth around the front of Superman's throat and bite, the waning life of Metropolis' guardian was expended in one last adrenaline-fueled push to take down his final foe.

The monster's claws still around his body, Superman struck over and over again with his flailing fists and feet, a flurry faster than any he had ever delivered. The monster's jaw was the first to go, shattering and releasing its grip on Superman's neck. Then it was the cheekbones. Then the fingers. It dropped its captive in pained surprise. With one last, hoarse scream, a victory cry and a mournful sob at once, tears filling his eyes as he thought of his wife and child and the brothers and sisters in justice that he would leave behind and finally, as many warriors do, as he thought of his mother, he whaled on his opponent, every movement bringing them both pain. His memory registered nothing he saw, blinded by the intense emotions behind every blow. He simply kept punching.

And where _were_ his friends? Those who found out about it and had made it, including Bruce, were trapped. They were bound to pillars and the sides of buildings with whatever Superman could find that was strong enough. By the time they had managed to free themselves, it was too late. It had ended too quickly. It was only after they talked to Kelex that they discovered why they'd been restrained. The monster was somewhat of a legend on Krypton. It had been around for as long as any native of that bygone planet could remember. The only detail that could be agreed on was its unbelievable strength. Knowing this, Kelex was concerned when he discovered it heading to Earth. So Superman took Kelex's advice, knowing as well as his friends that he had the leg up on raw strength. If someone was to defeat the monster, it was to be him.

As for his family, Lois and Connor were at the Lanes' house, as it was Lois' father's birthday, which Clark found simultaneously convenient and terrible. It was a forty-five-minute drive from the busy, urban part of Metropolis that the monster landed in. That gave Clark plenty of time once he received word from Kelex to meet with the monster. Early that afternoon, the family necklace he wore brought him that fateful word, and he left his family for the last time, only stopping to kiss his wife and hug his son goodbye without explaining.

When it was over, Superman was weakly bringing up his fist and letting it smack against the side of the monster's pulverized face. The last time he brought it up, he let it down open-palmed, his brain finally registering that the monster was dead. The flow from his neck had slowed, but it had done enough. His front was dyed red, and his skin had paled. He made no speech. He said nothing, in fact. He only stayed silent as he slumped over his enemy, closing his eyes and letting slip one last, rattling breath.

The police got to the body first. Seeing there was nothing they could do, Superman's friends left the scene. Lois Kent identified her husband, Clark, after they'd cleaned him up as best they could. The memorial was quiet, the press kept out, and held in Clark's hometown of Smallville, Kansas, at the First Methodist Church he attended with his parents as a child. Jimmy Olsen delivered the eulogy, and Lois and Clark's close friend Dick Grayson said a few words as well. Clark was interred next to his father, Jonathan Kent, in the Smallville Cemetery.

Clark's friends knew Lois and Connor might be targeted. Each was allotted a nightly watch. Because of their efforts, several minor attacks had been thwarted in the last five years. They had no intention of letting up their guard.

On the anniversary five years later, during Lois Kent's tour of America's northeast, where she spoke publicly with family and friends commemorating her husband's life and heroism, Dick and Bruce weren't in charge of the watch. And so they found themselves back at Loser's, where they always seemed to go when they weren't feeling quite right.

With all this recollection going through his head, Bruce restated, "No, I've not had any nightmares. I've been sleeping peacefully."

"So, I guess those aren't the issue, then?" Dick gingerly offered.

"I guess they're not. I don't know, Dick, I guess this time around, I just…miss my friend. I haven't had nightmares, I haven't even cried…it's just this oppressive… _feeling_ …without anything else to distract from it. Maybe that's it."

Dick had a vacant look in his eyes, almost like he was seeing five years into the past. "Yeah, I think I get what you're saying. I think maybe that's it."

Hannah approached from the bar and said, "Take care of your glasses for you."

"Thanks," came the reply from both men.

"Hey, how are you guys doing? Really?"

Bruce gently answered, "You know, I think if we're honest here, neither of us are okay. But…that idea stopped bothering me a long time ago. So…we're not okay, no. But maybe we will be soon."

"Well, you know where to find me if you need anything. You're on my prayer list and stuff."

"I wouldn't expect anything less," Bruce chuckled.

"Suppose you wouldn't. I heard Lois' speech in Metropolis this morning went well. You going to see the one at city hall tomorrow?"

Dick and Bruce glanced at each other, until Dick looked up and replied, "I don't think so. But maybe."

"Well, hope to see you there!"

The men nodded.

Dick continued, "Well, unfortunately I think it's about time for me to go. Got to go pick up the wife. She's got to be up _early_ tomorrow."

As he got up, Hannah threw her arms out wide. "Don't forget to hug your favorite bartender!"

"How could I," Dick grinned. They hugged with one little squeeze at the end and parted.

"Your turn, Bruce," Hannah raised her eyebrows expectantly.

Bruce heaved himself up and, supporting himself on his cane, wrapped his right arm around Hannah.

"It was good to see you both," Hannah said, nearly in a whisper.

"It was good to see you too, Hannah," Dick responded, with Bruce nodding his agreement.

Hannah and Bruce parted, and as she headed back to the bar, Bruce spoke up, "Hey, Dick, I think I'll tag along with you. I haven't seen Barb or Lois in a while. Lois could probably use a pep talk for tomorrow, too."

"Couldn't hurt. Come on."

Dick and Bruce dropped a few dollars each on their table and went out of Loser's. Before the little bell above the door was finished ringing out, a toast to Superman began, but the men took no notice, and stepped out into the night.

Had they known what was said, they might have wished they stayed longer. Especially the end.

"Superman wasn't just one of us. He was _all_ of us, all of us who know we don't belong and try to bring some _good_ out of it. He was all of us who see the wrong in this world and try to make it right with what we have. And he was all of us who just want to raise our family and see our friends in a world that is _safe_ for them to live in. Superman was all of us. So he's still our Man of Tomorrow. But more importantly, he's our Man of Today. Take that home with you tonight, friends."

He raised his glass to the sky beyond the low ceiling of the bar.

"And long live Superman."


End file.
